


How to Disappear

by amiserableone



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Kinda a mess for right now, M/M, Steve is an artist without the serum, bucky is an assassin, but not against his will, well sort of, wrong luggage AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 18:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiserableone/pseuds/amiserableone
Summary: In which Bucky is a highly skilled assassin with no connection to the somewhat relevant artist, Steve Rogers.That is, until he makes the mistake of grabbing the wrong suitcase at the airport.An artist, a criminal, a kill list, and a suitcase enter a room. Only one of them can make it out, and it sure as hell isn't going to be you.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This au is messy and complicated, but I will do my best to string it together.
> 
> Bucky is cocky, Steve is a nerd, and lives are at stake.
> 
> That’s all.
> 
> Also. Title from the Lana Del Rey song with the same name.

Bucky Barnes had made a fatal mistake, and he knew it the minute he cracked open the generic black suitcase he thought was his own.

The suitcase, relatively small and easy to carry, had no tag on it. Bucky’s was the same way, so as to not expose his identity, even a fake one, to a single person who did not control what he did on a day to day basis. He was “The Winter Soldier.” Nothing more, nothing less. Some dumbass, however, must’ve had a similar idea, because here he was, expecting his own belongings and instead getting paint stained graphic tees.

How in the hell did a man trained to live in the shadows manage to mix up his suitcase at the airport?

How could he, of all people, be so fucking stupid? The contents of that suitcase were nothing to be taken lightly, especially one pretty little thing that would surely end with the Soldier on death row and some very unhappy bosses.

A kill list. Though risky to write all of it down on paper, only coding it with Cyrillic anagrams, (okay, the Soldier didn’t make the rules, he simply abided by them) it was meant to go completely unnoticed, passed off as a grocery list by anyone who wasn’t curious for a bullet in the brain.

And as much as Bucky didn’t want to get blood all over his brand new suit, you know what they say. Curiosity killed the fucking cat.

His mind darted to what the recipient of his suitcase would be wondering. Had they already opened it and realized the mistake? Would they attempt to contact Bucky, to no avail? What would happen to that piece of notebook paper that decided the fates of eleven New Yorkers? His mind buzzed, his head falling into his hands.

Well, if there was one thing the Soldier could do, it was find someone.

Steve Rogers had a fucking storm coming, and Bucky didn’t even know his name.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve Rogers, though a struggling artist who barely managed to pay rent every month, was no idiot.

He had an eye for when things weren’t right, and this was one of those occasions. 

Sprawled out in his tiny, shoebox apartment, the man sifted through the contents of the suitcase that was, evidently, not his own.

Instead of paint stained jeans and flannels that hardly fit, he was met with hospital-grade clothing, all plain and dark. It looked like someone with no personality, no individuality, and no opinions had chosen a wardrobe.

Uninteresting, as far as he was concerned.

That is, until he noticed a tiny slip of notebook paper tucked neatly underneath a pair of pants, just begging to be read.

Steve was not one to meddle, but what harm could reading it do?

A lot, he would come to learn.

Opening the folded paper, he immediately recognized it as Cyrillic. See, most red blooded Americans would have given up right then and there, returning the possessions back to their spots as if they were never moved at all.

Steve was also no ordinary American.

After a few moments of contemplation, he pulled out his laptop, searching Google translate into the browser.

Within five minutes, he could decipher Google translate’s version of what the note said. 

Eleven names. Eleven locations. Eleven dates.

Jesus fuck, what was he getting himself into? Russian writing, no clothing expression, and a random list of names and locations seemed odd, setting off something bred from spy movies and the streets of New York inside of him.

Steve, though five foot something with arms that could be snapped like twigs, was also not a coward. Bravery, Steve had learned, tended to be a synonym for stupidity, but that had never stopped him before. 

He was going to get to the bottom of this list, even if he got thrown into some Russian crime circle for it.

Oh, the irony in that.

————

A week had passed and little progress had been made in figuring out what the hell the list implied or meant. The only thing those people seemed to have in common was being immigrants, but there was common theme there, either. They were all from different countries, social classes, and backgrounds. Gender, age, and race played no part in it.

But then again, what was “it?” The Steve Rogers that was getting his ass kicked in an alley really, truly wanted it to be something exciting and malicious and terrible.

Maybe so he could be the hero.

Or maybe because there’s only so much adrenaline portraits can give you, and a change would be nice for a little while.

Either way, he would’ve liked it to be similar to something out of a cliché crime film.

However, the reasonable side of him knew that it was probably just a schedule for meetings, nothing more. People would be better off that way, too. God, wishing for crime and death was something Steve never thought he would want. 

A week and a day ago, he was showing off his artwork in London, dancing through the weekend with a strong, beautiful woman by the name of Peggy Carter.

Now he was avoiding drawing in the name of justice - or whatever the hell he was planning on doing.

Would he go to the cops even if the list did prove itself to be some terrible thing? Probably not.

So what would he do?

Thinking about that made him want to reach for his inhaler and tear the list into shreds. Seriously. A piece of notebook paper should not have been causing him to lose sleep.

It’s also worthy noting that Steve had made no attempt to contact the owner of the suitcase. Obsessive by nature, he planned on going on his maybe-kill-list scavenger hunt until he got to the bottom of it. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do. Especially with an inbox full of commissions and a dozen text messages to reply to from his friends and family. All of them along the lines of, “Hey, you’re home!!!!!! OMG!!!!! Want to paint me this for free?”

But that could wait. This was now. He couldn’t help but wonder if whoever picked up his suitcase by accident was having nearly as much fun as he was.

(He wasn’t. The Soldier promptly disposed of all belongings that were not his own, Steve’s entire suitcase included. Oops?)

However, there was a certain line that needed to be drawn. By the two week mark, Steve was ready to give up, completely prepared to decide that the list was innocent, and nothing more than face value. The detective work kept him busy for awhile, and now he was ready to go back to his routine. But of course, fate stepped in, compelling Steve to turn on the nightly newscast for the first time in what felt like years.

A murder, the audience was told. Forty-two year old Boris Petrov found brutally killed in his home.

Steve was prepared to make some comment under his breath about how there couldn’t be a name more stereotypically Russian than that, but deja vu struck.

Where has he heard that name before?

The puzzle pieces began to connect in his mind, and God, he wished for that inhaler.

On the back side of the mysterious list, Steve had taken the liberty to write the translations.

There, very clearly, it stated: 

Number one: Boris Petrov. The thirteenth of October. 395 Leonard St., Brooklyn, NY.

Yeah, Steve was totally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE CHAPTERS WILL GET LONGER AS I GO. I just wanted to get something out there today. The plot is slow right now but. The kitchen is heating up soon, baby!
> 
> Kudos and comments are so validating. Please. I’m begging.


End file.
